


Demon Hunting by the Light of an Orange Moon

by Tish



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few who dare to fight demons, fewer still who have the courage to go up against the Trump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demon Hunting by the Light of an Orange Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abluestocking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abluestocking/gifts).



A baleful moon looked down upon the autumnal woodlands, as a light dusting of frost started to settle upon the moss-covered tree limbs.

The ethereal silence was broken by footsteps which echoed hollowly, the crisp crackling of twigs and leaves were like a grim and gray echo of a warm and friendly fire.

The woman paused and looked into the sky. As an orange glow slowly crept across the waxing gibbous moon, the woman nodded. He was near, he'd strike soon, but she was ready. She clenched her jaw and inhaled deeply. She was so damn ready.

 

The legends were many and varied. Some said he'd always be accompanied by a gush of hot air, others proclaimed he loved the sound of his own voice, still others told of his desire to carve his name over everything he claimed. People pointed to golden towers and say he built them from the bones of his enemies, that he demanded giant likenesses be made of himself, that he would build a giant wall of gold.

Stories, rumors, legends. Spooky tales to share by firelight and desolate wastelands, yarns to keep one from sleeping, to make one peer from the corner of the eye at the monster lurking – there, quick, turn around behind you!

Michelle knew the legends and the myths, she knew that others had come before and fell. Men and women of stout heart and keen mind. She vowed to fight on for their souls and for the lives of the mortals. She vowed not to fail them.

 

She knew she had only a few more days, the full of the moon was fast approaching, and then the battle had to be either won or lost. 

Each night the moon became more swollen and orange. Michelle tested and re-tested the traps, everything had to work seamlessly and perfectly.

All set, and waiting. It was time. She slipped into her hiding place and waited.

 

A humming and rushing sound sent birds flying from their slumber, the moon's light flickering as they tumbled across the sky, dazed and confused. A final blast of hot air and a _memememememememe_ sound, and there he was. Trump. Tall, slightly bloated, and distinctly orange. His eyes glowed as he dashed toward the path of golden mirrors.

Michelle nodded and lifted a remote control. As Trump pressed himself against each mirror, a wall silently slid into place behind him, trapping him and leaving only one direction to go. He propelled himself along the mirrors, leaving a slime trail of drool as he passionately kissed each one, pausing now and again to grind his groin against one or two.

 

The maze of golden mirrors surrounded a cave's entrance. Once inside, he found himself in a gently curving space. 

Deprived of his own reflection, Trump finally spoke. “What is this place?” The cave softened his words as they echoed all about him, gently whispering, caressing his ears. 

A perfect whispering wall, it was an irresistible lure.

“The voice of a god amongst men!” Trump laughed as his own voice tickled his ego. 

 

He span around and spread his arms wide, only to stop as he noticed the figures flickering across on a wall screen. Pupils dilated, he moaned in orgasmic ecstasy. “All those numbers. _Big_ numbers. _Billions_. My favorite kind.”

Breathing heavily, he pressed himself against the screen, he'd noticed a small hole in the wall at about waist height and wished he had his little pills handy...

 

Silently, Michelle stepped out from her hiding spot and readied her weapon. She smiled and shook her head as he gyrated against the wall. “I hate to interrupt your love-making, but you're toast, Trump.”

With a hissing and growling, Trump span round, eyes changing from glowing orange to a demonic red. Michelle's chainsaw sank into him before his demonic fury could read maximum charge and he howled out a wounded banshee noise.  
Twin vortices of rushing, bloviating wind started to spin from his hands, but Michelle drove the chainsaw in deeper, adding a twist.

“It's over, Trump. Back to the hell hole that spawned you!” Michelle's eyes shone with righteous fury.

“Puny human, really? A chainsaw? Did you borrow that from an illegal garden worker?” Trump spluttered, orange flecks flying from his lips.

Michelle narrowed her eyes and flexed her muscles. “It's enchanted, and it's doing the job quite well.” 

 

By now, Trump was pinned to the wall, his knees sagging as his strength gave way. “Nothing. Can. Stop...Me!”

“Humanity, empathy, compassion, humility, how about those apples?” Michelle replied.

“Fuck those apples,” Trump muttered, his eyes dimming and fading.

“Apples are good for you, Trump. Eat healthy. You know this thing has a purée mode? I can't wait to try it out.” Michelle's grin was incandescent as she pushed Trump down to the ground.

Trump heaved a final breath and exhaled with a soft _memememememememe_ , all evil dissolved, leaving a pile of orange mush on the ground.

 

It was over.

 

As the days turned over, the moon waned gibbous and the chill in the air deepened and became crisper. Michelle moved on, new demons would be lurking, new foes needed to be defeated. There was no rest for a demon hunter.

 

That Halloween, Starbucks unveiled a surprise new flavor, the source a closely guarded secret, Trumpkin Spice Latte proved to be a big hit indeed.


End file.
